


Pride and Prejudice (and Threesomes)

by Dustbunnygirl



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 18:44:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7373218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunnygirl/pseuds/Dustbunnygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>River's tea with Jane Austen is delayed by an unexpected guest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pride and Prejudice (and Threesomes)

_“I mean, if it’s Jane Austen, you’re not going to do the big tongue jobs, are you?”  
-Alex Kingston, on on-screen kissing [The Graham Norton Show]_

The elegance of a vortex manipulator is its subtlety. There’s no big blue box arriving out of nowhere with a groaning and grinding of gears (because the driver always forgets to take the emergency brake off, even after being reminded). If the jump is planned well, the coordinates entered right, there’s just a quick hole punched briefly in the fabric of time and space, aimed for an empty alley, a linen closet, or a convenient copse of trees not far from the actual destination. River Song steps out of the latter - a collection of slightly overgrown hawthorn shrubs, to be specific - and adjusts her slightly crooked hat once she’s clear of all the branches.

As she unbuckles the strap holding her manipulator on her wrist, River smiles to herself. “If I ever meet that time agent, I should thank him for the loan,” she says as she tucks the gadget away in the drawstring reticule hanging on her arm. She pauses, then, as she’s closing her purse, and chuckles. “Maybe not. He might want it back.” 

It’s just a short walk from the hedges to the quaint brick home situated at the crossing of Chawton’s two main thoroughfares. As she goes, River makes sure the short, tan jacket she wears over the top of her day dress is buttoned right and didn’t get twisted in transport. She generally hates having to dress for historical accuracy. Various periods in Earth history are obsessed with complex layering in an attempt to maintain modesty. She tends to buck modesty on principle. At least Regency Era dresses are comfortable and no one’s decided corsets have to be laced tight enough to cut off circulation yet. The Victorians have all that fun. The Georgians, thank the stars, think they’re Greek and like under-bust waists and long, flowing skirts and cute, puffy sleeves. The best part of the clothes, though? So many places to hide so many weapons. A woman can’t be too careful, after all. Besides, sacrifices are made for people who are worth it, and she’s on her way to spend time with just that sort of person.

Not just anyone has a standing date for tea with Jane Austen, after all.

She knocks when she reaches the door and is met by a smiling young woman who waves her in. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Smith. Come right in, won’t you?” 

“Hello Cassandra. Lovely to see you.” River pulls off her hat and unfastens the buttons on the spencer, offering both to the other woman. “Is everyone well?”

“Perfectly, ma’am. Mother told me to thank you for the suggestion of a warm compress for her wrists. It’s done wonders for that bit of arthritis.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Now, where might I find that sister of yours? Scribbling away through our teatime again?”

Cassandra shakes her head. “Wandered out into the garden for some fresh air. Should I go get her?”

“I’ll hunt her down. As long as she hasn’t slipped away to the orchard, I don’t think I’ll have too much trouble.”

Cassandra escorts her through the house as far as the back door, then returns to whatever had her attention before River arrived. Left to her own devices, River starts wandering the neat garden, listening to the low hum of the bees drawn in by the thick perfume wafting from the rose bushes. She has to walk through an invisible fog of the fragrance as she goes and breathes it in deep. Nothing will ever smell as pure and as sweet as those buds. Science never learns how to replicate it exactly, no matter how hard they try, and the real thing deserves to be appreciated. Cliché as it is, she stops and stoops by one of the bushes to smell a robust bloom; she clips it off a few inches down the stem and twirls it between her fingers as heads towards an old oak just shy of the garden wall. 

Everyone has their special spot; the place they go to think, to daydream, to hide, to cry. Her tea companion’s spot is at the base of that oak, nestled between gnarled, exposed roots that worked their way out of the dirt long ago. The trunk is wide enough to hide behind without risk of being caught, which makes it perfect for running away to for all those things mentioned before. It also makes it perfect for hiding other things, as River finds out as she steps enough into view to see what else – who else – is nestled between those roots.

If the two women tangled up with each other against the base of the tree weren’t so busy kissing, they might make enough noise to warn off unexpected guests, but their mouths have other concerns. So do their hands, Jane’s working on freeing her lover’s breasts from her bodice, her friend’s hidden beneath Jane’s skirts, making the woman writhe and let loose a stifled moan into their frenzied kiss. River stands quiet and rigid, watching the scene play out ahead of her in mute astonishment. 

It’s not the act that shocks her. There have always been rumors. “Unfounded” stories, according to the family and self-proclaimed credible historians. She’s an archeologist, of course she’s heard them all. It’s who has her hands up Jane’s skirts that alarms River. No, “alarms” isn’t the right word. Alarm isn’t what makes River crush the rose she just picked until the thorns pierce her glove. Annoys. That’s the word she’s looking for.

River finally clears her throat and does it too loudly to miss when it all starts to feel a little too voyeuristic. The two women jump apart at the sound of her voice, each scrambling to put their clothes to rights as Jane starts to stammer out an explanation.

“It’s not…it’s hardly…it’s…Mrs. Smith?” Jane blinks up at River, surprise and relief in the expression. “I’m sorry. I must have lost track of time. We’re due for tea. Heavens.” She glances at her companion and clears her throat a little. “Let me introduce you to-“

“Oh, believe me, Miss Austen, I don’t need an introduction to Clara Oswald.”

Clara’s head comes up finally, pausing the buttons she was putting back in order. Her eyes narrow, where Jane’s had gone wide as saucers. “Mrs. Smith, is it? Funny, not how we were introduced before.”

“Technically accurate, since he uses the name so often.” River flexes her fingers just to keep her hands from balling into fists. She might use them if they do. “Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here. You’ve already borrowed my husband, why shouldn’t you borrow anything and anyone else?”

“Borrow?” Jane turns to Clara, confused and hurt and both emotions evident on her face.

“I haven’t ‘borrowed’ anyone,” Clara says, forgetting about the buttons altogether. She’s been a very naughty girl – there’s no shift under that dress and without the buttons she’s beyond exposed. River gets an unobstructed view of the girl’s full breasts framed by the open bodice. “He’s not m’boyfriend.”

“No, I think we’ve already established he’s my husband.” A husband who apparently never clarified that the “Dr. Song” he talks about so much is a woman. Is his wife. Maybe she needs to rethink her “one psychopath per TARDIS” rule, because it’s obvious The Doctor needs a chaperone if he’s going to keep roaming around picking up young girls.

Clara pushes up to her feet and stomps the short distannce to where River stands. The stomping jostles the exposed flesh River’s already having trouble not staring at. She steps up onto one of the exposed roots so that they’re standing eye to eye, putting those two distractions too close. “Listen, you. M’gettin’ tired of this ‘other woman’ bollocks. If you’ve got a problem trustin’ him, you take it up with him and leave me out of it.”

She doesn’t know what makes her do it. Smell of sex on the air, adrenaline bubbling too hot, frustration too close to the surface…Before she can think too hard on what she’s doing, River’s hands are cupping Clara’s face and dragging her into a rough, angry kiss. Clara resists at first, tries to pull back, but the fight bleeds away and morphs into need instead. What’s that old saying about love and hate being separated by nothing more than a very thin line? If that’s true – and River can’t really argue it when it comes to The Doctor sometimes – then sex and hate must lurk in the exact same pool, not separated by anything but intention, and most days that’s thinner than any line any person could ever draw. That’s all purely academic anyway; there’s no deep thought involved in the hands kneading Clara’s bare breasts or the tongue parting her lips. 

When she feels hands at her buttons, while she knows full well there’s also a pair deconstructing her careful updo, River breaks the kiss and cranes her neck to look behind her. There is Jane, sharing wicked looks with Clara over River’s shoulder, undoing the buttons up the back of her dress.

“It all seems a very diplomatic means of resolving your conflict,” the writer says, then leans in to nip at her nape. “It would be rude not to offer my assistance.”

River’s clothes are a hastily discarded pile before she really notices. She’s laid out on the ground soon after, Jane kissing a searing trail between River’s rib cage; across her stomach; past her navel. Clara vacillates between kissing River past the point of sense and suckling her breasts. When Jane’s fingers slip inside River the first time and she feels the other woman’s breath fanning the dense hair between her legs, Clara detours from Rivers breasts. Her teeth pinch the fleshy lobe of River’s ear, then curve into a grin once they release it. 

“If you think Jane’s good with a pen, you should see what she can do with her tongue.” The words barely finish before Jane’s tongue slides over River’s clit. Clara swallows up the moan with a kiss meant exactly for that purpose.

 

“Doctor?”

The Doctor’s eyes snap open and he looks around the TARDIS control room, frowning. No, not just frowning. Pouting. That was an excellent daydream and someone had to just go and interrupt it. Hardly seems fair at…Wait. Who interrupted it?

“You all right?” Clara stands at the door, dressed in her favorite Georgian ensemble, staring at him with a curiously cocked eyebrow. There’s no worry in the look; just question. “You were mumblin’ again.”

“Oh, sure. Yeah. Of course. Absolutely.” He tries to swallow past a suddenly dry throat and fidgets clumsily with his bowtie. His face feels hot. Scorching, even. He hasn’t blushed in…well, it’s been awhile. “Nothing wrong here. Go along to your afternoon tea. Would be rude to be late, after all.”

“We have a time machine. Late’s relative.” Clara watches him a second longer, then turns the knob to open the door. “Shouldn’t be but a couple hours. Don’t go takin’ off without me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He clears his throat a bit and waves at her retreating form. “Stay out of trouble.”

The door closes. The Doctor takes a relieved breath and sags against the console. Then the door opens again, just enough for Clara to peek back through it. 

“No, that’s not how women fight over men. Yes, we’d likely let you watch, if you asked nice. Bye.”

As the door closes again, The Doctor wonders if anyone’s ever blushed so hard they died before, because the one flooding his cheeks in that moment certainly feels fatal.


End file.
